


Knots

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:01:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Bard’s met halfway.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Comments: 6
Kudos: 99





	Knots

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It’s a long walk through the miserable cold, worse so for the late hour, but the barge takes up all his time in the day, and it only makes sense to buy from the night market—prices are lower, though the products are more bruised. At least his children are sleeping, so he’s not missing out on more valuable time with them. He trudges home with his arms full of pitiful vegetables and fish, ice piled atop to keep them fresh. It drips through the cloth sacks and leaves small puddles in his wake, but the suspended town is one giant puddle anyway. Bard hums a tragic tune under his breath just to keep himself awake, whilst telling himself that he really must learn some better songs. 

He only ever hears _good_ music in one place. It’s still another month before the Dorwinion wine comes in from the east, and he can row it off to Mirkwood, where the wood elves’ enchanting tales will renew his faith in the world for a little longer. 

There are always eyes on him there—hidden archers and sentries that spy on him from the trees. He has the same prickling feeling on the back of his neck now, but he tells himself it’s only paranoia brought on by weariness. It’s too far out for anyone important enough to bear an elven guard. There’s _nothing_ in Laketown but cold and misery.

It’s a relief to finally reach his door amongst the many other wooden hovels littering the makeshift street. He shoulders his way inside, trying to keep his hands beneath the wet patches in his arms so the wood inside won’t rot with moisture. The candles are still lit along the entranceway and out into the kitchen—he gets far enough to set the bags down on a chair.

Then he sees who’s sitting at his dining table. The Elven King takes up the entire room with his presence, his clear eyes instantly pinning Bard to the spot. His handsome face is a beacon of beauty amongst a sea of ugliness, something that makes Bard’s pulse spike in his chest. But the most captivating part of the scene isn’t the elf himself, rather what’s being done to him—all three of Bard’s children stand behind him, long tendrils of his pure golden hair in their grubby hands. 

“And then you loop over the first strand again,” Sigrid is saying, showing Tilda and Bain, who each follow her instructions with the bundle they’re holding. Sigrid doesn’t offer the next step, because she’s spotted Bard and instead greets, “Welcome home, Da’.” But Bard’s already grasped what they’re doing: she’s teaching them to braid with the finest model in all of Middle Earth. 

Bard was under the impression that Thranduil held no love for mortals, especially little ones. He’s never been outwardly cruel to Bard’s children—if he had, he would hardly be welcome. But he’s never seemed quite comfortable with them either—the conversations between Bard and the King of Mirkwood have always been secluded, adult-only. Bard can’t even fault him for it. While Bard loves his children more than anything in the world, even elven songs and this one lord, he knows that Thranduil is a great gem that must only have the finest artisans style his exquisite hair. 

Bain flashes Bard a smile, then tries to move his chunk, and a quick wince flitters across Thranduil’s gorgeous face. Tilda instantly scolds, “Not like that—you’ll pull it out!”

“You’re too sensitive,” Bain huffs. Bard happens to know that Thranduil can withstand quite a bit of hair pulling, but he’s actually far more sensitive than Tilda there. Stepping forward, Bard clears his throat—he’s sure Thranduil’s been tormented long enough. 

“Thank you for entertaining our guest,” he tells them, though he doubts Thranduil will have found his precious hair being sullied entertaining. “But I think it’s well past bedtime.”

“ _Aww_ ,” Tilda whines, mirroring Bain’s pout, but Sigrid smiles softly and seems to understand. She pats Tilda on the shoulder, shuffling her towards the doorway, and lightly plucks the remaining hair from Bain’s tight fist. 

She ushers them out of the kitchen, throwing Bard a fleeting, “Goodnight, Da’,” and Thranduil: “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”

“Sleep well,” Thranduil returns. His voice is a deep wave that rumbles through Bard’s entire body. He waits until the children are gone and he hears their bedroom doors close before he shows his reaction. Then he’s swiftly crossing the kitchen. He stops right at the table while Thranduil reaches back and deftly undoes the damage. 

“This is a surprise,” Bard admits, and he means it in so many ways. Thranduil’s answering grin is thin and languid.

He all but purrs, “A pleasant one, I hope.”

“The most pleasant.” The best possible surprise he could ask for. He can’t help himself—he leans across the table, ridiculously pleased when Thranduil tilts forward to accept the kiss. His lips are every bit as soft as Bard remembers: his touch is warm and silken. When the kiss ends, Bard still hovers there, muttering between them, “Thank you for indulging them.”

Thranduil sighs against Bard’s lips, “I knew that it would be worth the suffering.” Then his hand clasps Bard’s chin, and he draws Bard in for a much fiercer kiss, one that leads to so many wonderful things.


End file.
